The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector Page A

becoming interested in facts: facts are solid stones. There is no means of avoiding them. Facts are words expressed throughout the world.
    Well then.
    Faced with this sudden offer of help, Macabéa, who never remembered to ask for anything, asked her boss for time off by pretending she had toothache. She accepted a loan from Glória without having the faintest idea when she would be able to pay her back. This bold decision surprisingly encouraged her to make an even bolder decision (bang): since the money was on loan, she reasoned somewhat perversely, and was not strictly hers, then she was free to spend it. So for the first time in her life she took a taxi and asked to be dropped in Olaria. I suspect that she acted so boldly out of sheer desperation, even though she didn't know that she was desperate. She was at the end of her tether and felt completely worn out.
    Tracing Madame Carlota's address turned out to be straightforward: so very straightforward that Macabéa thought of it as being a favourable omen. Madame Carlota's ground-floor apartment was situated on the corner of a cul-de-sac. On the pavement tiny blades of grass sprouted between the flagstones — Macabéa noticed them because she always noticed things that were tiny and insignificant. She thought dreamily, as she rang the doorbell: grass is so easy and simple. Her thoughts were gratuitous and unconnected because, however erratic, she possessed vast reserves of inner freedom.
    It was Madame Carlota herself who came to the door. She greeted Macabéa amiably and said:
    — My guiding spirit has already informed me of your visit, my dear. What is your name again? Ah, yes! A very pretty name. Come in, my pet. There is a client with me in the other room. If you don't mind waiting in here. Would you care for a coffee, my pet?
    Macabéa was taken aback, never having received so many endearments from anyone. Mindful of her own frail existence, she cautiously sipped the cold coffee which tasted quite bitter. Meantime, she examined with admiration and respect the room in which she was being kept waiting. It all seemed very luxurious. The chairs and settees were covered in yellow plastic. And there were even plastic flowers. Plastic was the last word in luxury. Macabéa sat with her mouth wide open.
    Eventually, a young girl emerged from the back room, her eyes red from weeping, and Madame Carlota beckoned Macabéa to enter. (How tiresome to have to grapple with facts. Everyday matters annihilate and I'm not in the mood for writing this story which is merely a form of catharsis. I see that I am writing here and there about myself. I accept no responsibility for what I am writing.)
    Let's continue then, however much effort it requires: Madame Carlota was voluptuous; she painted her rosebud mouth a vivid scarlet and dabbed her plump little cheeks with rouge, which became shiny when applied to her greasy complexion. Madame Carlota looked like a large china doll that had seen better days. (I can see that my story lacks depth. I find it exhausting to have to describe things.)
    — Don't be frightened, my pet. Anyone at my side is also at the side of Jesus.
    Madame Carlota pointed at the coloured print on the wall which represented the Sacred Heart of Jesus in red and gold.
    — I'm a fan of Jesus. I'm just mad about Him. He has always helped me. Mind you, in my heyday I had enough class to live the life of a lady. Things were easier then, thanks to Jesus. Later on, when I didn't rate quite so highly on the market, Jesus lost no time in helping me to set up a brothel with a friend. That earned me enough money to buy this ground-floor apartment. I then gave up the brothel for it wasn't easy looking after all those girls who spent most of their time cheating me out of money. Are you interested in what I'm telling you?
    — Very.
    Wise girl, for I'm not lying. You should become a fan of Jesus, too, because the Saviour truly redeems. The police clamp down on fortune-telling and